


all for the love of you

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Begging, Blindfolds, Captivity, Communication, Cussing, F/M, Foot Jobs, Gags, Gen, Gonna get that one marked common too, Hurt/Comfort, I'm gonna single-handedly make that tag marked common, I'm gonna write 500 fics so that tag is marked common, Intercession, It's kinktober ok, Love, M/M, Mild CBT, My id's in a place right now, Non-Consensual Bondage, Objectification, Prostration, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Supernatural Elements, There's always love, Transporting humans across state lines for immoral purposes, blue and orange morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 18:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: I DIDN'T MEAN TO WRITE A PART TWOI'M SO SORRYI COULDN'T LEAVE IT LIKE THATWHEN WILL I LEARN





	all for the love of you

He's dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Two men. It's been a while since that happened. Never in this room, never since he belonged to Daisy.

"I hate category A," says one of them, shoving him down to his hands and knees. "Zero fucking entertainment."

"Good money, though," says the other one.

The first one slaps John's bare ass, slides a finger down and pokes at his hole. "Enough to buy me a sweet piece of meat like this?"

"Look at him jump," says the second one, amused. "Don't you get fucked, slut?"

"Single owner," says the first one. "Female. Maybe not."

"Aww," says the second one, and John tries not to tense as the finger probes harder. "Is he mommy's good boy?" He laughs. "Mommy's baby scared?"

John's slightly embarrassed to be shaking, but-- he's not used to this, not any more. Not to roughness, or contempt, and not to not understanding why something's happening to him. 

He thought she was pleased with him. She had other people over, just a few days ago-- well, not people, others of whatever-she-is-- and shared him, showing him off, and he did well, even though the combination of them all feeding off him left him limp. She praised him, held him in her arms and gave him sips of juice, fed him dinner with her fingers, and she's been extra gentle and affectionate since. The last time she left him, she kissed his forehead.

What has he done now, why is she angry, why is this happening? He's done nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybe it's not punishment, though, because they don't actually fuck him, or even really hit him. They zip-tie his hands behind his back, yank him to his feet again, and then buckle a leash around his cock and balls, pull it tight enough that he can feel it's spiked on the inside. Not too sharp, but when they pull, he whimpers, and they roll their eyes. One grips his jaw, forces his mouth open and jams cloth into it. He gags as it fills his mouth and pushes at his soft palate, as the guy tapes his mouth shut on it. Then a black bag comes down over his head, and the leash gets another harsh tug.

He follows the pull of the leash. Feels carpet under his bare feet, and then grass, cooler air on his naked skin. Is he being kidnapped? Should he be fighting? Will she think he ran away?

But he can't afford to fight-- even if he had his hands, or his eyes, or could fight without ripping his own cock and balls off-- in case this is on her orders.

They pick him up, throw him down hard, a car trunk lid slams. The car starts.

It's a long drive. He wishes he could sleep, but he can't, less because of the spiked leash they didn't bother to take off him and the cramping in his shoulders and his low-key fear that he'll suffocate than because he's playing through a million possible scenarios in his head. _Category A_ sounds like-- at least-- these particular guys aren't supposed to damage him, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything about what happens after they deliver him. So maybe Daisy's pissed off, or just bored with him, and she's sold him to another whatever-she-is, or sold him back to the agency, or to another agency, or rented him out, or sent him off for behavioral reconditioning more intense than what she can manage herself (which has to be pretty fucking intense, considering what she can do) or he's being kidnapped-- stolen-- by persons unknown for reasons unknown and Daisy's going to be pissed at him when she finds him for letting this happen and _where is Finch, what's going to happen to Finch--_

The car crunches on gravel, slows, stops. Doors open, slam, and he hears her voice.

"Where is he?" she asks.

He hears the trunk pop open, and then hears a noise so horrible he'd clap his hands over his ears if they were free. It's screaming, in two voices, tandem screams of so much agony that it's hard to bear even secondhand. Then they cut off abruptly, at the same moment, as the bag comes off his head and Daisy leans down over him, her face distorted with rage.

He whines into the gag, tries to flinch back from her touch, for whatever good he thinks that's going to do. She's reaching for his leashed cock.

"Shhh, shhh," she says. "Shhh, sweet John, it's all right, it's all right."

She takes off the leash with gentle, deft fingers, brushes over sore places, pulls the tape from his mouth, then the cloth. Breaks the zip tie with her fingers. Gathers him up into her arms. He clings to her, shamelessly, and she soothes him, murmuring, "There, there, John. It's all right. You're all right now."

He's shaking like a leaf, stupid when nothing bad even happened, but he was so scared, that he might have lost her favor, that things might be-- the way they were-- again. Or worse. He doesn't kid himself that she couldn't make it much, much worse. For him, and for Finch.

She pulls him up-- she's a lot stronger than she looks, which he already knew-- and sits down with him on what seems to be a gravel driveway, holding him mostly in her lap. There's a starry sky above him. It's been a while since he saw that.

There's also bodies on the ground. The two men who dragged him out of bed lie unconscious on the stones where they've fallen, fresh blood on their ashen faces, on their upper lips, and smeared from their ears.

"How should we punish them for frightening you so?" she asks, in the same comforting, cajoling tone, as if she's asking a toddler with a scraped knee what kind of ice cream would make him feel better. "Would you like to kill them?"

He can't help but give a shaky little laugh. "No-- no thanks."

"It's just as well," she says, cuddling him absently. "This is my own fault. I should have researched transportation services more carefully, or seen to your transfer personally. But I've been all at sixes and sevens, and-- oh, this is really terribly unfortunate, particularly at this juncture. I was trying to decide how best to broach a painful topic with you, and now you're already unnerved. Well, live and learn. I certainly won't be using _this_ service again."

He clears his throat. "Painful topic--?"

"Concerning Mr. Finch," she says, and he jolts, twisting violently away from her, or trying; her arms don't budge. "John, settle down. Nothing has happened to Mr. Finch, yet. But there's been-- an unfortunate incident."

_"What incident?"_

"John," she says sharply. "I understand you're upset, and I'm prepared to make allowances, but I do expect you to control yourself. Not least for Mr. Finch's sake. Let's get you inside, out of the night air, where we can discuss this quietly."

"No, Daisy, wait, please--" He's trying to get his breath. "I'll be quiet, please, please just tell me--"

"Very well," she says, still cradling him like a baby. "Mr. Finch has used the data connection you obtained on his behalf to set up a-- well, a distress signal, of sorts."

_Oh, Finch._ John should have known the man wouldn't be able to leave well enough alone. He'd be impressed by Finch's resourcefulness and chutzpah, if he wasn't so terrified of what she's going to say next.

"Well, it's necessitated that I move my household elsewhere, at least for the moment," she says. "Here, in fact. Obviously, this is a very serious matter, calling for severe discipline."

_No, no, no, no, no---_

"I know, John," she says, gently, "but what can I do? Surely you see I can't let this kind of behavior go unpunished. I won't damage him permanently, but a sharp lesson now will be of benefit to him in the long run."

_Sharp lesson--_ He can still hear the screams of the men who put him in the trunk, and they were just following procedure, even if they were a bit nastier about it than absolutely necessary. 

"But I hate to cause you undue suffering," she says. "So I did intend to consult you, regarding the method of punishment you felt might be most efficacious, to prevent a repetition of the behavior. So that we won't have to repeat this-- unfortunate scenario."

"Let me see him," says John, his mouth dry. 

Daisy frowns. "John, don't try my patience. He's made it clear he _wants_ to see you. That's a reward, not a punishment."

"But I'll--" He licks his lips. "I'll make him understand. That what he did was-- unacceptable. He, he responds to-- reason."

"Not in my experience," says Daisy coolly. What has Finch been doing? Saying to her?

"But he'll listen to me." John has no idea whether that's true. "He won't do it again. Not ever. If he does, you can p-punish him then." His breath is coming hard, between sentences. "One more chance. Please, Daisy. I'll work so hard, I'll make it so good for you, please--"

"The quality of your work isn't in question," she says. "You've exceeded my expectations in nearly every particular. Oh, dear, John, how you're trembling. And your poor heart--"

She seems to consider for a moment, and then she reaches down, picks something up off the ground, and presses it into his hand. It's a small rock or large pebble, uneven-edged.

"Hold that," she says. "What's about to happen shouldn't be painful or distressing. If it is, let go of the rock, or if you can't remember how to do that, go as limp as you can, and I'll make adjustments. If you're all right, just hold onto the rock."

Before he can answer-- not that she _asked_ him-- everything goes out of focus, as if the world is one of those old Magic Eye posters and he's lost the right eye position to make it anything but an incoherent mess. 

He can see and hear, sort of-- it's not dark, or quiet-- but he can't make any sense of anything. Except the rock. He can feel the rock, and he holds it. He feels its edges against his palm and fingers, even though he can't tell otherwise whether he's standing or sitting or lying down, or in freefall.

She was right, though, it's not painful or distressing. His heart might still be pounding, his stomach clenching, adrenaline racking his muscles with hard tremors, but he doesn't feel it any more; the signal's scrambled, or his receptors are on the fritz. It's all just static. White noise.

In the absence of his body's panic response, he actually feels... better. Less despairing. Better able to think. 

She could have put Finch's punishment into effect already, and she hasn't; she didn't lose her temper with Finch, the way she did with the transpo guys. She waited, to talk to John, and that means it matters to her, at least a little, how he responds to this.

And she let him get scared and a little bit hurt tonight, and didn't mean to, and maybe he can parlay that into something, guilt-trip her a bit. She'll know that's what he's doing, of course, but he doesn't think she'll mind. He's her prized possession, the goose that lays the golden eggs, and she likes him baseline grateful. He tastes better that way.

He has power here. Just a little, but maybe it's enough.

He's not sure how long it is before the incoherent noise of the presumable world begins to form into a rhythm and then a melody, a familiar one, and then he can hear a voice singing, quietly, but as clearly as if she's put earbuds into his ears, which it's possible she has. If she can unscramble just the places where his hand holds the rock, she can probably do just his eardrums, too. Or she's plucked this song from his memories, is playing it directly on the neural network. Either way, he's slightly amused at the idea that she might have put it on to soothe him. Elevator music of the formless chaos. 

On the other hand, maybe it's just his own brain trying to make sense out of the low-key madness she's plunged him into.

_Here comes the rain again, falling from the stars..._

He says, although he can't tell whether his lips move or whether his voice makes a sound, "I used to love this album."

Maybe she hears, maybe not. Green Day keeps playing. _Becoming who we are._

And he's right: when the music stops and the world comes gently back into focus, he's fully dressed (in his favorite jeans and softest T-shirt) and standing upright, in a small, unfurnished room with bare white walls and a tile floor, on which-- his newly perceptible heart seizes-- Finch is sitting, in as dignified a way as it's possible to sit on a floor, looking at him. Holding very still. He's wearing a suit. No tie, though. John misses Harold's ties.

"John has requested to be allowed to speak with you, Mr. Finch," says Daisy, beside him. "He seems to feel that he can make you understand the error of your ways, without the need for punishment. I suppose we're all about to determine whether he's right."

"Get out," says Finch to Daisy. "Leave us alone."

She raises her eyebrows, looks at John. "Perhaps you two can also discuss the finer points of etiquette. And gratitude."

"She's doing me a favor, Finch," says John quietly. He feels kind of OK, even now that he's back in his stupid body. Maybe whatever she did calmed his heart down, like how tech support always tells you to turn it off and wait twenty seconds. Or maybe it's the sight of Finch, despite the circumstances. He forgot, sort of-- it's been so long-- how amazingly _right_ everything about Finch is, what a good thing it is to see him, hear his voice, watch his face. 

Which looks startled, as if Finch wasn't expecting John to remember how to speak English. Funny, Daisy's probably been good for his vocabulary, with the weird old-timey way she talks. What was it she said-- _I've been all at sixes and sevens_. He's going to have to remember that one. If his sanity lasts the night.

Finch says, looking at John now, not Daisy, "I don't want to have to look at-- it. That thing. It makes me sick to have it in the room."

John can feel Daisy's anger, a low gathering hum like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. He's become quite the meteorologist of whatever-she-is. Should teach classes. What to expect when your eldritch mistress is pissy. How to defuse the Fair Folk after grave insult.

Well, if you're lucky enough to be delicious and nutritious--

He goes to his knees, all the way down into a full-on grovel, becoming aware as he does that he still has the rock in one hand; he leans onto his elbows, and wraps his empty hand around the heel of one of her shoes. It's the black leather ones she favors, and he kisses and licks them like they're part of her, like she has nerve endings there (which for all he knows she does; he doesn't pretend to understand her physiology, or how what she lets him see and feel and taste corresponds to the reality of her). Presses his face to the leather, fawning. Tongues the little stitches at the soles, making a job out of lavishing every centimeter with worshipful attention.

He can imagine Harold's face, but he can also imagine Harold's punishment, and he knows which one is worse. 

She eats it up, literally. He can feel her tasting his desperation and effort and attention to detail, and finding it good. Thank God. Or whoever.

"You are an extremely rude creature, Mr. Finch," she says, while John's lips and tongue stay busy. "Frankly, I find it difficult to understand what John sees in you."

"Likewise, I'm sure," says Harold tautly.

Daisy says to John, "Kneel up."

He obeys, tilting his face up boldly, and Daisy leans down and kisses his lips. Thank God, thank God, she only does that when she's very, very pleased, enough to indulge him, and he doesn't ask aloud but he thinks it as hard as he can, flavoring the thought heavily with supplication and humility, with his own unworthiness and tenuous, tremulous hope, his boundless gratitude--

"Very well," she says, and leaves the room, by a door they must have come in through, while he was out.

John breathes deeply. She'll still be watching and listening, of course, but...

"John," says Finch, as if it hurts.

John grimaces, shifting from his knees to sit down, his thumb rubbing compulsively at the edge of the rock. "Finch, what the hell are you playing at?"

That startled look again, as if John's a talking squirrel.

"I might ask you the same question," says Finch slowly.

"I'm saving our lives," says John. "That OK with you?"

"At what cost?" Finch snaps. "Being kept like a pet, at the mercy of a-- a--"

"You want to be back at the agency?" John demands, before Harold thinks of something to call Daisy, and John ends up having to do more than just give her a shoe job in front of him. "Or dead? The agency wasn't gonna discharge us with a new suit and a hundred dollars. We'd be six feet under, in a bunch of pieces wrapped in trash bags. Even if your hare-brained SOS scheme worked and you escaped, and even if she didn't track you down-- which she would, if she's got the money and connections to get us from the agency, and to move house with no notice in the middle of the night because you hacked her firewall, she'd find you in about fifteen fucking minutes-- how long do you think it'd take before the agency found you? This is the best-case scenario, Finch. Get that through your skull, OK? This is the one where we get to live."

Finch is still, watching him. 

John's not used to being around humans anymore, forgot how-- quiet-- it feels, when no one's speaking. If that's the word. Cool, empty, no tendrils of-- anything.

"And you're willing to--" Finch begins, finally, and then trails off. John wishes he hadn't had to do the shoe thing in front of Harold, although, of course, it's not exactly the worst thing he could have seen.

"I don't care what the hell I do," he says, with accuracy and precision, "as long as it works."

"Well, I do!" Finch snaps. "I care what the hell you do!"

"That's nice," says John, which probably sounds more sarcastic than he really means it, but-- "But we only get one life, Finch, and if I get to spend mine saving yours, that's a better use than-- anything else I could think of."

Finch looks shellshocked, gobsmacked, his lips parted slightly. His lips-- John can't think about his lips right now. Not with his own so freshly kissed by Daisy. Lips that touch ichor shall never touch mine. Or something like that.

"Why won't you see me, then?" Harold asks quietly. 

John looks at him, not understanding for a second-- he does see him, right now, he's looking with all his eyes, devouring.

"That-- thing-- says you refuse to see me," says Harold. "Is that a lie?"

John's throat tightens. "No, it's-- it's not a lie. I thought--" He breathes in, with some difficulty. "I thought it would be best."

_"Why?"_

"Is this your idea of a goddamn Sunday picnic?" John asks wearily. "I thought you'd rather not see--" He gestures to himself, his face. His mouth. "Or, you know. Have this conversation."

"You knew I'd be distraught," says Finch. "At the very idea. Of you-- _servicing_ \--"

John shrugs. "Sure. But I'd rather you were distraught than-- you know. Any of the alternatives."

They sit quietly for a bit. John's tired. It's been a long night already, and it isn't won yet. 

"It isn't fair," Finch says, and John frowns. "You doing all the-- work-- and me reaping the benefits."

"Don't be a dumbass, Finch," says John, overwhelmed with affection and exasperation, for this tightly wound, determined, fucking ridiculous man. Ridiculous, irreplaceable, indispensable. _Protect and serve._ "This isn't your skill set."

"There must be something I can do," says Harold. 

John shakes his head. 

"Just-- be polite," he says. "And don't fucking try anything. That was so fucking dumb, you know? She reads _minds,_ for Christ's sake."

Finch gives a dry, choked little laugh. 

"I wasn't going to leave you behind," he says. "You must know that."

"Well, that's even dumber," says John. "I mean, try to steal the Mona Lisa from the Louvre, why don't you."

"Is that how closely guarded you are?"

"I'm a goddamn national treasure, Finch," says John. "Kinda surprised you never noticed."

Finch's eyebrows shoot up, and John finds himself smiling.

"Come here," says Finch.

John's in the habit of prompt and unquestioning obedience. One hand's still curled around the rock, so it's not his most graceful crawl, but Finch is unlikely to be grading him on sinuosity. He arrives beside him, sits back on his knees, waiting.

"What's in your hand?" Finch asks.

John shows him the rock.

"She gave it to me," he says, when Finch seems to be awaiting further explanation, and, joking, "You want it?"

"May I have it?" Finch asks, formally.

John takes his hand, presses the rock into it, curls Finch's fingers around it.

"You can have anything," he says. "Anything that's mine." And, after a pause, "Which is pretty much just that rock. Sorry."

Finch's other hand comes up, grabs John's, hard. 

"I want to see you," he says. "Regularly."

John smiles a bit. "You asking me to go steady?"

"Don't be flippant," says Harold sharply. "This is serious. If I'm to-- consider accepting this situation-- that's my condition. Can you make that happen?"

"I think so," says John. He might have to step it up a little, for _regularly_ \-- but then, she said _The quality of your work isn't in question._

The door opens, and Finch jumps, and tries to let go of John's hand, but John holds on as she walks back in.

"Say you're sorry," he says to Finch, his heart hammering again. "Tell her you won't do it again."

Finch's hand tightens on John's, and he swallows, and says to Daisy, "I-- realize, now-- my actions were ill-advised. They won't be repeated." His hand tightens even more. "I-- apologize."

"Well," says Daisy, looking down on them. "John's society does seem to have a salutary effect on you."

"I'm very salutary," John agrees, dry-mouthed again, to see if she'll smile, and she does, briefly.

"All your usual extraordinary privileges are, of course, suspended," she says to Finch. 

Finch nods stiffly.

"Further punishment is also suspended," she says. "And regular meetings with John will be permitted. Until further notice."

John feels as limp as he did after the whole dinner party fed on him. He did it. He actually fucking did it.

"Come, John," says Daisy, and John manages, somehow, to let go of Finch, and crawl to her feet. He kisses her shoes again, not elaborately this time, just once each, and lays his cheek briefly against the right one. He's so fucking tired. Maybe she'll let him rest for a little, before he starts really repaying her. _Wake me up when September ends._

"Show me," she says, and John looks up, but she isn't talking to him. He turns to see Finch holding the rock on his open palm, displaying it to her, his face pale but neutral. 

She looks, and then nods briefly, and turns, and walks from the room, John following obediently at heel, not looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> ([Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVO8sUrs-Pw))


End file.
